There is nothing stained
that can't be cleaned,
no fact unknown that
won't be gleaned;
from a good book.

There is nothing new
on this good earth,
no jewel or fortune
ever worth;
more than a lover's kiss.

There is nowhere else
I'd rather be,
than rested
by a favourite tree;
with pen in hand.

And there is nothing else
I'd rather do, than write,
into and through
the night; in silence
made more still.

Thus a poet's choice
is simply this;
Ignore the chatter
and the hiss.
Instead, write hardy,
with intent; to entertain,
make no lament;
for the immortal soul.

For the philosophic mind will hear
sweet music never sung aloud.
Will see before the lips can form
a smile stood out above the crowd.

Will live the spirit of his age,
be chronicler; the wisest sage.
And dream to be like other men,
within whose heart there lies a pen.